


I Know, I Know

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He'll never eat my cookie dough with his finger, and I won't swat at him with the spoon until he goes away. He'll never ruffle my hair and call me little brother, even though I'm technically older than him. He'll never try to convince me to play video games with him at two in the morning, and I'll never kick his ass at Mario Kart again.</i>
</p><p>Reaction fic to 5.03 The Quarterback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know, I Know

The worst thing, Kurt thinks, is when he's tricked himself into feeling okay.

Then again, maybe it's not a trick, maybe he actually is making progress, moving forward, _accepting_. It's easy not to dwell when the world keeps turning, and his life keeps going, and no one is going to wait for him to sit down and take a minute. He doesn't have time to think, to let the darker parts of his subconscious creep forward and drown everything out.

So it's easy to feel okay when he doesn't acknowledge that something is wrong, that the _world_ is wrong now. The longer he ignores it, the easier it is to forget.

Which is what makes it so bad, really. Because he doesn't really forget. It's always there, that bit of knowledge sitting inside of him, dark and aching and _horrible_ —of course he shies away from touching it, who would touch something that causes so much _pain?_

Except then he brushes it, without realizing, and the time and the distance and the pushing-it-away hasn't done anything to make it hurt any less.

So he has a moment to breathe, a moment when life and work and school and friendships and relationships and planning a wedding aren't all weighing on him, and it's still there, sitting there and taunting him with the one thing he wants to forget but that he never can.

 _Finn is dead_.

It hits him when he least expects it, with no rhyme or reason or pattern. The more time that passes, the longer he goes without touching the sorest of spots, but it still happens.

He's had a long day this time. His body and mind are completely exhausted, and he has to be up early, and his bed and pillows call to him like a siren song. His eyes are heavy, and his limbs are close to just giving up completely, and it's pure _relief_ when he falls into bed and pulls his comforter snug around him.

Kurt should just fall asleep, he's tired enough for it, but it's as if something happens the second his head hits the pillow and then he just—he can't. Suddenly, despite the protests of his body, he's wide awake, staring into the dark and feeling like it's pressing in around him.

And then his mind wanders, and there's the _spot_ , and it bursts in an ache through Kurt's chest as he grips his pillow tightly with his hand.

 _Finn is dead_.

 _I'll never see him again_ , Kurt thinks, as he stares into the darkness. _He'll never eat my cookie dough with his finger, and I won't swat at him with the spoon until he goes away. He'll never ruffle my hair and call me little brother, even though I'm technically older than him. He'll never try to convince me to play video games with him at two in the morning, and I'll never kick his ass at Mario Kart again_.

They seem like such stupid things, but Kurt feels his throat close up and his eyes go bleary, and he blinks as if that might hold the tears back—but they break instead, running in single streams down his cheeks as his breath hitches and he has to press his mouth into his pillow to keep the noises in.

It feels uncontrollable, like the endless crashing of an avalanche, and it has Kurt grabbing blindly for his phone, blinking and squinting and trying desperately to _stop crying, for the love of god, stop_ , as he selects the contact.

It rings twice.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, and his voice is quiet but not groggy. Then again, it's not late—Kurt had been turning in early to keep himself from minimizing how much sleep he got.

A lot of good that's going to do him now.

" _Blaine_ ," Kurt whispers, and he can feel his voice break as the sobs continue to catch in his throat, and he closes his eyes and wishes as hard as he can for Blaine to be with him in New York and _not in Lima, not tonight, please._

"Baby, baby, baby," Blaine rushes to say, his voice soothing, and it helps, a little bit. He _shhhs_ and whispers nonsense that helps, somehow. Not as much as arms wrapped around him would, or… Or…

He doesn't think it, because he knows he can never have that particular thing back. Not now. Not ever.

"It's okay, you're okay," Blaine assures him, and Kurt shakes his head, squeezing the phone so hard his hand aches.

"No, no, no," Kurt chants, voice choked off. "No, it's not—it's not, Blaine, it's not _okay_ , because he used to ask for chocolate chips in his pancakes on Christmas morning and this year he _won't_ , there won't _be_ chocolate chip pancakes, there won't—" There won't be any Finn. Not at Thanksgiving, not at Christmas. His birthday will come, and what will Kurt do then? _What will he do then?_

Blaine is quiet on the other end of the line, but the phone is pressed so hard to Kurt's hear that he knows Blaine is still there, can hear him breathing. He hiccups out a sob and then presses his face into his pillow again, his body shaking with how violently everything _hurts_.

"You should still make chocolate chip pancakes," Blaine finally says, and it takes Kurt a few minutes to understand what he's saying. He sniffles, and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his pajamas (something he'll no doubt regret in the morning, but right now, he doesn't care).

"What?" Kurt asks, voice hoarse. " _Why?_ No one—no one will be there to _eat_ them, no one, not… Not _ever_."

"I know," Blaine says, and there's a tiny crack in his voice, in his composure. He's being strong right now, strong for Kurt, but Kurt knows that Blaine is struggling with all of this, too. "But you… You can still make them. Not because you think Finn will be there, not to pretend like everything is okay, but… But just to remember him. To remember Christmas with him."

Kurt has the urge to yell _no_. He doesn't want to remember, he wants to _have_ it. He doesn't… He doesn't…

He just doesn't want Finn to be _dead_.

"I… No, I can't just… Have a plate of pancakes that no one will eat, that's so much worse—" Even if Blaine says it isn't pretending, it would feel like it. And when Finn didn't sit down and eat those pancakes Christmas morning, it would just be a big, gaping reminder of the fact that he's gone.

"Then make one for you and eat it."

"I… What?" It draws Kurt up enough that he's able to blink back his tears that have turned more into small, occasional trickles now, like his body is running out of them.

"Make one chocolate chip pancake, a small one, and then just eat it. Eat it for Finn."

"Finn is—"

"I know, Kurt. I _know_." And Blaine's voice sounds rougher, and it makes Kurt's heart clench. It makes him wish even more that Blaine was there, that they could reach for and hold each other. _Soon_ , he thinks. "Just… Think of it as one way to remember him, to keep him with you."

"Blaine, you know I don't—" Kurt starts, scrubbing as his face where the tear tracks have dried and left him feeling like cracked pottery. As much as Kurt wishes he _did_ , he doesn't. As much as he wishes he could accept the idea that Finn is somehow somewhere, beyond Kurt's reach—he can't. He didn't for his mom, he didn't when it was nearly his dad, and he can't for Finn, either.

Not that he thinks believing in a fairy tale would bring him all that much comfort.

"I know, baby." Blaine swallows, and Kurt closes his eyes and pretends that he's right there. "Keeping a memory with you isn't talking to a ghost, or an angel. It's just… It's just remembering. The best, the worst. The good times, the bad…" Blaine trails off, and for a few moments, they are both silent.

Then, Kurt whimpers, "It hurts too bad."

And Blaine just keeps whispering, "I know, I know," because it's all he can say. Because he does know. Because this isn't the first time Kurt has called him crying, and it won't be the last time, and they both know that, too. And Kurt knows there is nothing anyone in the universe can say to make what he's feeling any duller, any less real, any more _manageable_ , and Blaine knows that.

So Blaine does what he can, and when they're together, they'll gather each other in their arms and hold on, and whisper those same words over and over again. Because it's not okay, will never _be_ okay. And, as unbearable as it is now, one day they'll be able to breathe and live again and it won't hurt so badly so much of the time.

Kurt doesn't know when that is, and neither does Blaine. Right now, all they have is their pain, and their friends and family, and each other. And they know that the only thing they can do is weather it together.

They know. They know.


End file.
